


i will have to ask you to leave, sir

by hellhoundsprey



Series: spn kink bingo 2020 [15]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Barebacking, Bartender Jensen Ackles, Bottom Jared Padalecki, Drunk Sex, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Jock Jared Padalecki, M/M, Shower Sex, Top Jensen Ackles, Unsafe Sex, light piss play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24268507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: In which Jensen continues a well-seasoned tradition of bad decision making.2020 kink bingo square 25: shower sex
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Series: spn kink bingo 2020 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602964
Comments: 18
Kudos: 123
Collections: SPN Kink Bingo 2020





	i will have to ask you to leave, sir

**Author's Note:**

> “implied/referenced underage” + “chose not to use archive warnings” = Jared’s age is never confirmed. You are free to imagine whether he truly is 17 like his (fake) ID states or he might as well be older and just be dicking with Jensen like the brat he is.
> 
> “light piss play” = Forced urinating in the shower. More humiliation than anything else.

Jensen wakes to the distinct buzz of a mouth on his cock.

Slurs, “Jesus,” as he stirs, still drunk, still without a hint of orientation.

At least it’s his own bed this time.

He finds that head underneath the covers to shove at it. All he gets for that is those lips sucking down on him harder, holding on for dear life and, quite frankly, dissolving every hint of opposition in Jensen’s limited conscience.

He groans. Keeps his hand in that hair—long-ish and soft—and rubs the other over his face.

As much as he hates to admit it: he’s getting too old for this shit.

Staying at the bar way past his scheduled hours, drinking, picking up. All his friends have kids or houses—are at least married. And even though that _does_ sound like a lot of fucking work, the thought of someone being there for you and maybe coming home to a cooked meal once in a while sounds pretty fucking good.

Jensen’s living off protein shakes, takeout, and random pussy. And while he’s right now regretting and cursing it, yeah, of course he’s gonna throw himself right back into that same lifestyle tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, a week from now. Once the aftertaste has vanished and the hangover has been nursed and he’s gotten his workout in, he craves it—the attention, the thrill, the freedom. That’s the thing with building habits for years and years and years. At least he doesn’t smoke.

“Slow down, baby; hey.” A love-tug on that hair. “Just let me head to the bathroom real quick, alright?”

Jensen shoves the sheets aside just in time to see his cock leaping from that mouth, the amused grin.

“Do it in my mouth if you want,” says the kid in Jensen’s bed, between Jensen’s legs, and Jensen sobers with alarming speed and whiplash.

As he scrambles, the kid laughs at him with his overgrown hand still on Jensen’s hip like it belongs to him.

Face hidden in his hands and maybe this is just a dream. Still a dream or he’s still drunk.

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, I need to stop drinking. I need to _stop_.”

“Chill,” he hears; careless, casually. That hip-hand migrated to Jensen’s cock now and strokes him like a there-there. “I’m eighteen.”

“No,” babbles Jensen. “No, you’re the—” His eyes snap open in sudden realization. He removes his hands to stare right into that bratty face, the still-there belittling smirk. “I remember you. Fake ID. Something-something Padaleski…”

“Wow, you’re good.” Kid’s all sunshine, tosses his too-long bangs out of his eyes to humiliate Jensen better. Up on one elbow now, still working Jensen’s cock. Stark naked. “You remember everyone like that?”

Jensen informs, “Only the crackheads,” and witnesses with growing dread how the kid ducks back down to nurse on Jensen’s cockhead.

Kid tells him, “I’ll take that as a compliment,” and breaks their eye contact to focus on getting his mouth back on the task at hand.

There’s an amount of force you shouldn’t have to exert in order to make someone stop sucking your dick, and yet here they are—the heel of Jensen’s hand against the kid’s forehead and he looks surprised, confused. But doesn’t try to dive back in.

Not that he could, with Jensen swinging his legs over and aside to climb out of the goddamn bed.

“I…I need—a minute.” And a good lawyer. “Imma—okay, look, I’ll take a shower and then we’ll figure this out, alright?”

Kid’s splayed out, big rolling eyes and up on one elbow, mocking how, “I _told_ _you_ it’s fine,” as the back of his hand wipes away the last remnants of dick-drool from the corner of his mouth.

“Stay—here,” Jensen plead-demands, hands up in surrender as he walks away from this scene, backwards, to make a point.

The bathroom is just next-door, and Jensen thuds his forehead against available tile-space as soon as he’s pulled the door shut behind himself.

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, Ackles. Jesus fucking _hell_.

A moment of weakness, of raking his fingers back through his gel-stiff mess of hair. Of walking in strict, small circles in his tiny bathroom. A caged animal in its own cheap (for the area) rented space. Caged in with its mistakes, its bad decision making. The fact that Jensen knows of drunk-him and yet lets that asshole roam the city.

Seventeen. God, _seventeen_.

That’s legal in Texas, isn’t it?

God, hell.

Stay cool. Calm down.

Think. For once _think_ , goddammit.

Jensen drags himself into the shower, pulls the Cowboys fan curtain closed before he starts the water. Cold at first and yeah that’s a good idea even though it feels horrible (and he deserves the latter, anyway), warm soon enough and then hot and that never fails to calm him, ground him. He lets it hit his face, the top of his head. Rinse him clean, maybe, just a little, just enough so he can step back out of this room without throwing up or hurling himself out the window.

He didn’t hear the fucking bathroom door, but he sure hears and sees the curtain swiping open.

Yelps, “JESUS,” and warns, “No, nonono,” but the kid’s already in here with him, crammed and naked and giggling as he wraps his octopus-arms around Jensen’s waist from behind, and Jensen catches his balance just in time before he can begin to ponder if maybe he _should_ just slip and fall and crack his head open and die, right here.

“Get—out!”

“But we’re saving water,” considers the kid, chest to Jensen’s back now and thumb-rubbing into Jensen’s navel, his happy trail. Jensen’s bladder does _not_ appreciate the shock _nor_ the faint pressure to his abdomen.

“I will count to three and if you’re not off my fucking back, kid, I swear to god—”

“Name’s _Jared_ , by the way,” and Jensen’s goddamned conditioned and spoiled dick thickens happily at the slick, foreign skin and warmth pressed to Jensen’s back, that forsaken hand worming back to flirt along the half-chubbed length of it.

Jensen’s grip on that wrist is even weaker than his drunk-self’s moral codes.

Hisses, “Stop it,” and Jared informs him, “Not what you said last night.”

A painful groan; halfway due to the vice-like choke of that fist, one quarter for the forearm squeezing around his abdomen and one quarter for the humiliation. The helplessness.

“God. Fuck.”

“Yeah, more like it.”

Jensen shivers; his forehead meets the tiles. Kid’s hard himself, nestled the harsh line of it into Jensen’s crack and ruts there, absently, with his mouth sucking lazy kisses into Jensen’s meaty shoulder.

He should…say something.

“I—think I’m gonna throw up.”

“That’s okay. Nothing’s dirty in the shower.”

“You’re—” Jensen throws a glare over his shoulder, meets those too-awake-to-have-been-drinking-with-him eyes. Oh, to have a non-traumatized liver again. “Can you slow the fuck _down_? For _a_ _second_?”

“Is it because I’m a guy or because of the age difference?”

“Do I—” Jensen frowns, offended. “Do I fucking look like someone who minds a goddamn _dick_?”

Jared accepts, “Fair,” and flirts his last available hand between Jensen’s legs to play with his balls. Still fixes Jensen with those goddamned eyes of his and Jensen crumbles, minutely.

Groans, “Jesus fuck,” and the added slickness (and/or loud rush) of water doesn’t fucking help him in any kind of way.

“You a shower peer?”

Jensen warns, “Don’t,” but Jared’s already pressing down on his belly, completely overwhelming Jensen’s body with the unrestricted force he uses and Jensen kinda breaks, kinda loses it in a way neither him nor his bladder could have predicted, and that first gush of piss hits the bottom of the tub and is washed away immediately, shamefully, and Jensen’s brain short-circuits, because oh hell no, no and no and no.

It’s fucking violent and sore—the pressure of his halfway-there erection constricting the usually so easy flow and the kid laughs all delighted, indents Jensen’s skin with his teeth as he holds his dick with one hand, milks his abdomen with the other; stands nearly as tall as Jensen and that’s a fucking offense in itself.

Jensen can’t remember when he put both his hands against the tiles, or when his forehead became the entire side of his face.

But he’s gasping, here, and is gonna die.

He’s gonna fucking die.

Jared laughs, “Aw, your ears are all pink, that’s so cute,” before he becomes very quiet very fast with how Jensen spins them, smacks the kid up against the wall back-first, wrists pinned next to his shoulders.

And for a second and a half, Jensen feels bad; fears that maybe he knocked him too hard and he’s dizzy, now, with how wide those eyes blink at him and that mouth droops open.

And he thinks he grumbles, “I told you to stop that,” but the water rushes straight into his right ear and his voice feels low and unimportant, and somehow they’re kissing, now, and Jensen can’t tell which of them fucking initiated _that_.

Maybe ’cause the kid’s all quiet now (finally), time turns funny—feels too fast, that transition of them exchanging spit to those arms winding around Jensen’s shoulders, to Jensen’s hands wringing that waist first and that ass later, and somehow they’re still sucking on each other’s tongues but Jensen’s got legs wrapped around his hips, got a boy cradled against the wall and his hands, his cock, his mouth.

Oh, lord.

“Ohmygod, you’re so hot,” sounds strangled, sounds younger than the teases before and Jensen grunts, thoughtless, buries his face in that collar-boned-and-nothing-else crook of a neck as he ruts blindly—finds him slick, there, still. From last night.

Hears, “Do it, fuck please do it,” so fucking starved for it and Jensen’s gonna be behind bars soon anyway, so what’s even the point of pretending.

Takes a good amount of pressure but Jensen’s in that jailbait clutch eventually, only the head of it so far but the unholy amounts of lube still waiting for him in this kid’s ass welcome him break-neck fast, let him punch deep and then deeper until there’s nails digging into his back, a skinny-meager ass kissing his balls.

Jared lets him drink all those whimpers from his mouth. Lets him grind them together and moves with him like they’re practiced, like this isn’t a first date. Like he’s had Jensen’s cock up his ass every day each day for the past couple of days, weeks.

Gasps hurt-wondering nothings of, “Fuck, _fuck_ ,” open-mouthed against Jensen’s bearded cheek while Jensen’s hips start to work his cock too-deep in those too-tight guts, the blindingly tight snap and pressure of it clenching at him, sucking him in and forcing him out all the same.

Jensen grits, “Happy?” and Jared nods, sobbing, eyes closed; face contorted with sheer, mindless bliss.

“Yes, yeah, _yeah_ , fuck, _please_.”

Fortunately, Jensen’s brain doesn’t have to let him know how exactly it is mustering up all that control, all that balance, despite his liver still catching up on his blood alcohol level. Lets him rut into this body without restraints, without conscience—just melting in this, letting himself go and chase that heaven.

Hears, “Oh— _oh_ ,” high-pitched and drawled and Jensen has to redistribute his weight, shift some to accommodate Jared hanging from him with one arm only now, the other working between their stomachs to jack himself off like this is a race. So fucking frantic and there he goes, nearly immediately, yips and bucks and it’s a one-sided effort for Jensen to stay on his feet for both of their sake because this Jared-kid is a wild, folded-up ball of tension thrashing on his cock, now-gooey hand still flying fast; all teenager, no patience.

Jensen bite-licks at that one stray spurt of it, as high up as his chin, before that one’s washed away by the shower stream like the rest.

Jared hiccups on the steady, unrelenting punches of cock into his prostate. His turn to be disoriented and whiney now; unfamiliarly pliant but hanging on as best he can, both arms again and yeah that’s way better, way easier for Jensen to turn him out right, make him choke out more deep-bellied love-sounds.

Doesn’t ask for a break. And Jensen doesn’t check (wouldn’t have the capacity if he tried) but that hand goes back to work in what feels like a recovery time Jensen’s lost way too many decades ago.

Jensen pants, “You close?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

Cock-drunk, “Do it in me,” all pinked and dream-mouthed and Jensen gets him there one-armed this time, replaces that hand with his own to wring him out to the last drop.

Doesn’t stop the kid from being ungrateful at Jensen lifting him off himself; can’t even stand on his feet right but complains, “Hey,” and it’s fucking easy to push this one to his knees, fucking putty in Jensen’s seasoned hands.

Kid catches up fast enough that there’s a tongue cradling Jensen’s perineum after that first rushed handful of strokes of his own fist, and Jensen groans, gutted, needs support and finds it with his empty hand fisted into Jared’s now sopping wet hair.

Feels that mouth chasing him but pushes the kid down to cream up his face instead. And even if there’s a stray gush of it (or two) hitting that tongue, those lips, thanks to the stream beating down on them from above, it’s watered down enough to probably mostly be safe. Probably.

Jensen runs on maybe’s and hopefully’s, most days.

The relief has him weak-kneed, flutter-lashed.

“Jesus.”

From somewhere below, Jared laughs at him.

~

Yeah, Jensen remembers those jeans. The criminal fit of them, now, after a good amount of caffeine. And that dirt-mouthed face; beauty marks like neon signs flickering for Jensen’s immediate attention.

Kid’s less of Jensen’s usual type than a general heartbreak on fucking legs.

Jared adds another ripped-off piece of toast into the already-there mush in his mouth as he notices Jensen staring at him.

Chews, “What?” and Jensen reprimands something about his eating manners and the state of his mouth that shouldn’t make Jared P-whatever grin like that.

“You’re so cute, all flustered like that.”

Jensen decides, “I’m not _cute_ ,” and blows into his cup before taking another throatful of sugar-and-cream-less liquid wakefulness.

Jared’s brand-new-looking iPhone spins like a toy in his spider-fingers. Dimples in those cheeks, hair dried and parted in the middle and he looks soul-crushingly mature like that. Maybe old enough for Jensen to have _some_ reason to plead with the judge.

Jensen’s bachelor-sized kitchen gets just enough light from its one window that the long-dead potted herbs on the windowsill spell his general incompetence out for him. Jared’s got one mile-long leg hiked up, barefoot, the other tangling from one of the two bar-height chairs Jensen’s once won in a bet involving a keg stand and someone being shirtless, and Jensen feels utterly bare, utterly judged and old and cranky in his old-ass faded band-tee and sweatpants and hangover. Harbors ideas of change, now, finally, once he’s by himself again. Maybe start with the beard. Get a haircut for actual money.

“Definitely cute,” says Jared, cocky little slut.

Jensen scoffs.

“Wouldn’t let me take a cab all by myself. Insisted you watch out for me—” Jared’s baby-lips purse into a more secretive smirk. “—you remember that?”

Jensen lies, “Sounds like me.”

Jared tells him, “You cried.” Adds, “When you couldn’t get it up.”

Actually sounds like him. Wait. “What?”

“You were all like ‘aw, oh, this never happened to me before, I swear, oh my god I’m so sorry,’ I was kinda worried you’d have a full-on breakdown, seriously…”

Jared’s voice dips stupid-low to imitate Jensen but he still delivers it like a comedy skit to a degree that brings a fresh wave of color into Jensen’s face.

“I—”

Jared laughs, belly-deep.

“Hey, try making it past _your_ thirties before you start judging!”

“Look, I don’t mind; good things come to those who wait an’ all that,” and Jared purses his lips to slurp from his Red Bull and it hits Jensen then and only then.

“Wait,” he splutters, “wait, so, last night, we didn’t…?”

Jared nearly snorts his drink through his nose.

“Oh my word, you’re kidding me.” He pales. Has to put his cup down, for once. “Oh, lord.”

His sodden brain works and works and Jared doesn’t help, just sits there and waits for more.

“I—wait, maybe…?”

Jensen throws him a pregnant glance.

Jared scoffs, his amusement layered with offense. “Uh, not to brag, but you’d still be feeling _that_.”

“‘Not to brag’, uh-huh.”

“You were _already_ cryin’,” explains the kid, sheepish but a glint in that eye that tells Jensen he might have maneuvered himself around an entirely different disaster.

“So,” Jensen supplies, after clearing his throat, “we came home and I passed out.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Awesome.” More coffee. A sigh. “Awesome.” Jensen gazes longingly out of the window. Into the slowly-awakening street, the traffic, the glimpse of the ocean. He sighs once more. Admits, “I’m getting too old for this shit,” out loud and all, and maybe it’s time for a change, for real.

The brat at his kitchen table confides, “That’s alright,” and stuffs another slice of bread into Jensen’s faithful toaster, “I’m into older guys anyway.”


End file.
